When morning ca, Leon didn’t dress in uniform. He wore black instead—old cloth, scarred at the sleeves, cut loose enough to move in. The kind of clothes you bled in without guilt.
He left early.
No fanfare. No detours.
The Northern Tower lood quiet in the haze, its windows catching the sunrise like slivers of molten glass. Leon climbed the outer stair alone, passing no one. The third bell hadn’t rung yet.
But the man was already there.
Older. Tall. Not in armour, but still imposing—like soone who’d worn it too long to ever really take it off. He stood near the edge, hands clasped behind his back, watching birds scatter over the trees.
"You ca," the man said without turning.
Leon stopped two paces away. "I was told to."
The man finally faced him. Grey eyes. A thin scar cutting through his right brow. No insignia on his cloak. But Leon didn’t need it. The presence was enough.
"You fought well. Not clean, but honest. That matters more than form."
Leon stayed quiet.
"I’m not offering you a title," the man said. "I’m offering you strength."
A pause.
"Real strength. Authority. Responsibility. Enemies. Allies. All of it."
Leon crossed his arms. "What for?"
"To test what kind of fire you carry. And what you’d do when it burns higher than you expected."
He stepped closer.
"You have one night to decide."
Then he left.
No scroll. No emblem. Just words.
Leon stood alone again.
The sun finally broke through the clouds.
He returned to the East Yard by mid-morning. No one asked where he’d gone. Roth tossed him a waterskin and gave a half nod that said more than words could.
Leon trained until his muscles were screaming. When he dropped to a knee, he forced himself up again. When the blade shook in his grip, he shifted his stance. Adjusted. Corrected it. Improved.
Because that was what this ant now.
It wasn’t about rising rank or proving strength.
It was about control and precision.
After drills, he sat beneath the maple tree at the yard’s edge, watching the breeze tug at its blood red leaves. His thoughts didn’t drift. They sharpened instead.
The man hadn’t offered a reward.
He’d offered him a trial.
A test of whether Leon’s fire could burn long enough, hot enough, to last through storms.
That night, he didn’t sleep again. He stood under the training yard lanterns long after curfew. Alone. Blade in hand. Shadows dancing across the stones.
Fena appeared just before midnight, tossing him a spare cloth.
"No one fights sleep like you do," she muttered.
"I’m not fighting it. I’m just preparing for what cos after it."
She leaned against the post. "So? Are you going to take his offer?"
"I don’t know yet."
"Then you already have."
Leon looked at her.
She shrugged. "The second you started thinking about it seriously? That’s the first step."
He wiped the sweat from his brow. "Then what’s the second?"
"Stepping forward before you’re sure."
Leon stared at the ground for a mont.
"Then I guess I’m already on the third."
When she left, he remained. Not training. Just breathing.
The fire inside him didn’t roar or rage. It didn’t flare.
It burned steady.
And when dawn ca, he was still standing.
Midday brought a courier.
No words. Just a satchel, light and unadorned, dropped on the bench beside him. Inside: a pair of steel bracers, finely etched. Not new. Not decorative. Worn by use.
There was no note.
Leon ran his thumb along the edge of one. His reflection barely registered in the brushed tal, but the weight in his hand was real.
He strapped them on without hesitation.
Roth watched from across the yard, jaw tight. "So that’s a yes, then?"
That night, his na appeared again—chalked onto the duel board, under a heading no one had seen before.
Sparring Division: Advanced Rotation.
Challenge: Voluntary. Initiation Required.
The hallway murmurs began before sunrise.
By the ti Leon entered the training hall, every eye was already on him.
A ring had been drawn. Not the usual one—this was different, carved into the stone itself. The centre of it glowed faintly where the torchlight hit.
Elric stood at the far side.
He didn’t smile. Just gave a sharp nod. "You asked to be tested. Here it is."
There was no crowd. No ceremony.
Just stone. Blade. Fire.
And a na they’d rember.
The mont Leon stepped into the circle, sothing shifted. Not in the air—but in the silence. It coiled tight around the room. No one dared whisper.
His opponent was already waiting.
Not a student.
Not soone he’d trained with.
A woman in her thirties, hair braided tight, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Scar over her lip. Sword balanced flat across both palms. Her eyes tracked him like prey.
"You’re the one they keep talking about," she said, voice flat.
Leon lowered his shoulders. "Does that bother you?"
She stepped forward, blade rising. "I don’t care what they say. i just want to see what you bleed like."
Elric raised a hand. Dropped it.
Steel t steel in an instant.
No easing in. No footwork gas.
Leon ducked a swing and drove in, low and tight. She countered fast—too fast. She caught his arm and twisted. Pain ripped through his shoulder, but he didn’t stop.
He broke free, struck for the ribs—missed by an inch. She smiled.
"You’re better than most."
Leon stepped back. Eyes fixed on her. "I’m not most."
They clashed again. Faster now. Two blades slicing through the air like they were cutting ti itself.
She scored a hit. Shoulder. Shallow.
Leon answered with a strike to the thigh.
Neither backed down.
The ring held them.
Stone. Blade. Fire.
And when it ended, neither one fell.
But only one kept standing.
Leon.
He didn’t raise his arms. Didn’t look at the others watching.
He looked at the woman, breathing heavy, blood on her blade.
She nodded once.
He’d earned her respect.
Elric’s voice rang out.
"Initiation complete."
Afterwards, Leon walked the length of the corridor in silence. The whispers were still there, but no longer sharp—curious now, edged with sothing quieter. Admiration maybe. He passed Roth outside the dormitory. They didn’t speak.
Roth simply placed a hand on his shoulder.
The bracers still sat tight on his arms.
Later, as the moon rose over the southern wing, Leon sat alone beneath the sa maple tree. The leaves drifted down around him in silence. No orders had followed. No directives. Just a promise unspoken—that this was only the first of many.
He stared up at the sky, then slowly, deliberately, drew his blade once more.
He moved through each stance with no haste. Every shift of weight, every breath, exact.
Not for an audience. Not for war.
For himself.
He would not forget how far he’d co.
Nor how much further there was to go.
And still, before he returned indoors, he did one last thing.
He marked a new circle in the dirt with the tip of his blade.
Smaller. Personal. Not for duels or rituals.
Just for the days ahead.
Then he stepped inside it.
And began again.
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